


The Adorable Groom

by greenteams



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, First Kiss, Fix-It, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John is strong and confident, Johnlock Roulette, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mary is Not Nice, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Oblivious Sherlock, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sort Of, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, Tags Contain Spoilers, man with a plan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 10:37:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15094949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenteams/pseuds/greenteams
Summary: What’s the opposite of “The Abominable Bride”?





	The Adorable Groom

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my first language, but I try my best to share with you this story in my head. This is how I wish the episode of The Sign of Three has developed.  
> Enjoy! Please be generous with your comments and kudos ღ( ´･ᴗ･` )

 

The Adorable Groom

 

John is enthusiastic about marriage. This is a conclusion Sherlock has to drawn.

 

He’s now in his own bedroom, and Mrs. Hudson is in the living room, speaking to John in a whispering voice. They may think he’s asleep but every word comes clearly into his ears.

 

“John…I know this is not my place to say, but—” She sounds hesitant and unsettled, “Look, I personally do not hold any biased judgment to Mary, but…now that **_Sherlock_** is back, are you sure this whole thing about the—” she pauses, and as if spitting out some filthy vicious word, “ ** _wedding_** , is still going on?”

 

“Oh, yeah, sure, Mrs. Hudson, I don’t see why not.” Replies John, all casual and breezy.

 

“But Sherlock is back and alive!” Mrs. Hudson emphasizes with an incredulous tone, and forgets about being whispery and subtle.

 

“I know, that’s the best part, isn’t it, Mrs. Hudson?” John says patiently, “Now he can be on the wedding. He’ll be just as thrilled as I am.”

 

 ** _He will NOT_**. Sherlock flounders on his bed and jerks up the bedspreads to cover his ears.

 

***

 

Not only does John is enthusiastic about locking himself up with the social bonds and chains of marriage, but also demonstrates incredible interests in planning the wedding, which is a disastrously crowded and tumultuous and meaningless party for family and friends. His passion for wedding planning even exceeds his passion for crime solving. Sherlock feels furious: how come he never sees that bit in John Watson in the past?

 

Ever since John starts planning the wedding, he stops going on cases with Sherlock; what’s even worse is that he happily makes Sherlock plan it with him—so much so that Sherlock himself has no time for cases at all—as if Sherlock should be as involved in the wedding as John is.

 

“Come on, Sherlock,” John snaps shut Sherlock’s laptop abruptly to stop him from checking the email inbox, almost catching Sherlock’s fingers between the lid and the keyboard, “we don’t have time to solve cases at the moment, there are lots of work to do,” he’s counting numbers joyfully with his own fingers, “the venue, the band, the dish menu, the outfits, the guest lists…”

 

“Why aren’t you discussing these with Mary?” Sherlock interrupts.

 

“She’s got aerobic classes today, said she has to lose 10 pounds before the wedding,” John waves his hand, drags a chair to seat himself close to Sherlock and pats Sherlock’s bony shoulder, “unlike you, you don’t have one pound to lose, you skinny genius.” And he giggles aloud as if he’s said something really humorous.

 

Sherlock wiggles his shoulder a little uncomfortably, reaches for a pile of writing papers across the desk and scrutinizes the invitation lists drafted by John.

 

“Why are **_my_** parents on the list? Why is there a list for **_my_** relatives?” Sherlock frowns, “Why is **_Mycroft_** on the list??”

 

“Because they will come,” John says affirmatively, and he checks two different envelope samples against sunlight through the window, “So, Bohemian…how on earth is it different from regular stationary, hmm, Sherlock?”

 

Oh yeah, can you believe this? John never bothered to ask Sherlock to be his best man. One word would be enough, Sherlock would have immediately agreed; but at least John should have had the courtesy to mention it up? But—no. He just assumes that Sherlock agrees. Assumes Sherlock is more than happy to help him with the planning. Assumes all of the Holmes relatives are coming to the reception. Because sure, the British populace cherishes the traditions of regularly going on attending wedding receptions where their long-out-of-contact relative is supposed to be the groom’s best man. What is going on inside that little head of John’s, is beyond Sherlock’s comprehension.

 

Lucky for him, Sherlock adores that little head.

 

***

 

“You’ve been losing weight. That aerobic course suits you.” Says Sherlock amicably. John, on the other hand, is sitting in his own chair, burying his face in his phone.

 

Mary is carrying a couple of big sacks and stepping into the front door of 221B living room.

 

“My, that’s so sweet of you to say so!” Mary is delighted. She drops her sacks in hands, grabs Sherlock and kisses him on both cheeks.

 

“Woahhhhhhhhheyhello?!” John brandishes his arms violently from his chair, “There is still someone breathing here! And someone will get jealousy!”

 

Sherlock self-consciously and quickly retreats from Mary’s embrace.

 

“Are those serviettes in there?” He points a finger to the sacks on the floor, sincerely hoping that Mary’s flaming lipstick colour doesn’t leave marks on his face.

 

Unfortunately, he turns around to find Mary perching on the chair’s armrest, and John’s also got a couple of bright red lip prints on the face. It looks like he is very much in need of one of those serviettes, too.

 

***

 

“So…serviettes, Swan or Sydney Opera House?” Sherlock shows two different types of folded serviettes on the tea table, “these two types are all I can do.”

 

“Oh my goodness,” Mary says in a theatrical tone, “did you learn it on YouTube?”

 

Sherlock replies fluently: “Many unexpected skills are required in the field of criminal investigation—”

 

“Fibbing, Sherlock,” teases Mary giddily.

 

Unwilling to give up, Sherlock continues: “Once I broke an alibi by demonstrating the exact severity of a fold—”

 

“I’m not John, I can tell when you’re fibbing.” Mary says with an unnecessarily smug half-smile.

 

“He’s not lying, I remember that case,” John cuts in, who has just left the loo with his face all wiped clean, “he really did that, I was there, saw it with my own eyes.”

 

“Thank you, John.” Sherlock lets out a small breath.

 

“OK. Well,” Mary’s tone indicates something may not be OK, though, “Opera House, then.”

 

“Really? I thought Swan would seem a little bit more elegant; needless to say its obvious symbolic significance—”

 

“I said, the opera house is fine.” Mary’s voice becomes a little sharp now.

 

“Fine.” Sherlock feels somehow embarrassed, and he begins to unfold that serviette swan.

 

“Wait a minute,” John slides in between him and Mary, “Both ones seem fine to me. Let’s not be so extreme about this, OK? How about compromise a little and do half and half? For example, the bride’s guests could enjoy the abundant lines of the opera house while the groom’s guests can admire the swan’s elegant curve. How do you think, Mary?”

 

“I think it’s a great idea, dear.” Mary smiles coquettishly.

 

“Your heard the lady, Sherlock,” John clicks his fingers to him, “start working.”

 

***

 

“Your brother recommended this to us,” John hands him a business card, “says it’s got a hundred years’ history and exquisite craftsmanship in making dress suits.”

 

“You keep contact with my brother?” Sherlock wrinkles his nose in aversion, examines hard that tiny piece of paper, searching for some trace of Mycroft’s evil criminal scheme.

 

“Yeah,” John says lightly, “you free tomorrow afternoon? Let’s go to try on and get fitted?”

 

“Us?”

 

“Of course,” John is amused, “Otherwise, what are you going to wear? You git.”

 

“Mary… Is she also going?”

 

“Oh, she’s already picked a dress in somewhere else.”

 

Suddenly Sherlock feels both relieved and heavy.

 

“Alright, John. Tomorrow afternoon.”

 

***

 

Sherlock meticulously buttons his last button and walks out of his cubicle. John’s already done, and waiting for him in front of the mirror on the floor. He’s standing there, his side to Sherlock, and dealing with his cuff.

 

His silhouette is absolutely stunning, Sherlock thinks to himself. The shadows of his eyelashes are like melted gold; the shape of the tip of his nose is like the Jungfrau in a sunny summer day. They’ve just picked the matching dark coloured tuxedos and grey suit pants, along with white shirts, golden-brown waistcoats and light champagne knitted ties. They’ve even got bowlers hats in matching colour with the suit pants. It seems that Mycroft has informed the owner of the store about their specific sizes, so that the suits are perfectly fit now.

 

With the dress suit highlighting John’s steady posture and muscular lines of his back and waist, he looks taller than he is. With the colours of his waistcoat and his tie echoing his mysteriously blond and silver-grey hair, John’s whole form is encircled by a warm and ethereal halo in this afternoon sunshine.

 

John turns to face Sherlock with his halo and Sherlock is as blushed as he possibly can be.

 

And that is when John’s eyes widen. He gazes at Sherlock, taking him in, and he looks so shocked that he cannot say a single word.

 

A wave of panic sweeps across Sherlock’s entire body. He rushes to the mirror to check himself: “What’s it? Is it something wrong that I did? John?”

 

“No, you didn’t,” John’s voice is shaky. He steps closer, lifts one hand to cradle Sherlock’s nape and the other hand goes to adjust his tie for him, and now Sherlock can see the watery glamour from his starry blue eyes: “You look **_fabulous_** , Sherlock.”

 

**_Oh._ **

 

Sherlock feels like his ears are burning.

 

But John lets go of him quickly enough, he blinks hard and averts his eyes to the floor. He covers his mouth with one hand and clears his throat. “I’m sorry. Excuse me for a moment. Be right back.” And he marches his way towards the direction of the gents.

 

***

 

“Your fiancé, he really loves you much, sir.”

 

“Sorry?” Sherlock’s alone in front of the mirror, and his lost in the thought is interrupted by someone talking not far from him.

 

“That expression, on his face. The reaction after first time seeing one’s beloved one dressed up for the wedding,” it’s the young shop assistant who serves for them, (whose name is Adam or something), tanned skin, courteous manner, radiant with smiles, and one hundred percent gay, out of closet, “I have seen that on the faces of countless grooms-to-be. Tears in eyes, lost their words, deeply in love. If you ask me, sir, I will say that being able to witness such beautiful scenes is God’s gift to this job.”

 

During all these years he and John have known each other, there were million times people took them for a couple, yet this is the first time Sherlock has ever heard people saying that John is his “fiancé”.

 

Maybe due to the magical pronunciation of the French word, Sherlock finds that, for the first time, marriage is not a so repulsive concept.

 

It takes him a few seconds to decide that he can indulge himself a little bit in the absurd delusion of “John Watson is my fiancé”.

 

***

 

Not before long Sherlock already regrets not having corrected Adam’s misunderstanding in time. (Or, in his deep deep down inside, honestly, does he?)

 

He’s been waiting for John to come back from the gents, and he feels hot wearing the suit. He goes back to the cubicle to change it off, telling Adam that they will be having these (Seriously, why not? Simply for the looks on John’s face, that’s worth it.), and he sends Adam to see where John is.

 

Before he is getting out of the cubicle anew, he sees Mary walking towards him with a very unpleasant manner, accompanied by John, and followed by a very deflated Adam.

 

Immediately Sherlock feels at a loss. What did Mary find out?

 

Carefully he retreats back into the cubicle and leaves a crack between the door and its frame through which ha can peep.

 

“John,” Mary starts furiously, dropping her handbag onto the sofa, “this tailor’s shop you’ve decided to patronize is among the most expensive ones in London, if I’m not mistaken?” she squints at the furnishings in the fitting room, “well this place looks passable to me, how come the staff here can’t even reach the standard as simple as respecting their client?”

 

Adam bents down so low that his body and his legs are in a vertical angle: “Ma’am, please again accept my sincere apology. I should not have assumed inappropriately, or have spoken inappropriately.” The poor young lad is so close from kneeling and begging for forgiveness.

 

John, on the other side, behaves just like every decent husband who comforts his angry wife would do. He puts one arm along Mary’s shoulder and coos soothingly: “Apparently they only do nice clothes, golden words aren’t their specialty. I’m sure this young man means no harm.”

 

“Even so! Those words hurt!” Mary takes the opportunity to lean her head against John’s chest and whines all sloppily.

 

A weird spasm spreads from Sherlock’s throat to his stomach.

 

“I know, I know, darling. That is why…” John says gently, his free arm digs into his pocket to get his phone and pushed several buttons, “I’ve just booked a top-level whole-package Spa for you in Soho. Why don’t you go and have a good relax while I will make use the rest of the day to nail down the wedding cakes. Come on, lets’ go and get you a cab...”

 

He cocks his eye to Adam, who hurries to open the door to the front hall and John goes out holding a very upset Mary in his arms.

 

***

 

Sherlock sits across from John, staring down at nine different pieces of cakes on the plates in front of them.

 

“Have a try,” John urges him, “I didn’t bring you here for you to just observe.” The corners of his lips are turning up. He is smiling at Sherlock and seems in a good humor.

 

John has just told Sherlock about how Mary had come back from her girls’ meet early and how she dropped by the dress shop. But it turned out that shop assistant guy Adam (according to John, his name is Eddie) had recognized her as some housemaid of John and Sherlock’s. After Mary had denied that with domineering arrogance, Eddie had ceaselessly apologized about being so tactless to not having recognized Dr. Watson’s mother.

 

Sherlock listens to him telling the story, a little absent-mindedly. He wants to ask John what the expression in his eyes and the words from his mouth meant, in that fitting room, earlier this afternoon, when John saw them in identical dress suits.

 

“Does Mary know I was there, too?” He finishes by merely asking.

 

John shrugs. “Dunno. But I think that’s not important, is it, hmm?”

 

What does **_that_** mean? Then what is important? Sherlock wants to ask. But what he does is fiddling sulkily with the little spoons on the table.

 

“No appetite?” John takes the spoon from his hand and scoops some cake to his mouth, “or do you just want me to do this for you?” Sherlock lifts his eyes and looks at him through his lashes, John’s eyes are fixing on him with hope: “Tell me which flavour you prefer, OK? I’m so clueless in the aspect of desserts.”

 

In a heartbeat, John’s looks are becoming as irresistible as those when in the fitting room. Without noticing it himself, Sherlock opens his mouth and swallows down the cake from the spoon.

 

***

 

The hazel nut chocolate flavoured cakes are surprisingly tasteful.

 

“This is it, then,” John watches with satisfaction Sherlock finishing up three pieces of them, rises to his feet and rubs affectionately the curls on the top of his head, “I’ll go to pay the deposit.”

 

***

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“What are **_you_** doing?”

 

Sherlock sighs. Even if the ravishment of getting married tends to lower one’s IQ, John shouldn’t be this slow.

 

“I’m teaching you to waltz. As promised.”

 

“Yes. But your arms look like you are **_leading_**.”

 

“Of course my arms look like I am leading, because you are going to lead, John, and I am showing you how to lead.”

 

At this moment, they are standing side by side in the living room of 221B, the tea table and the two arm chairs have been pushed to the wall. Both of men are outstretching their own right arm in front of themselves in a semicircle curve, and holding up their left hand on the side – doing exact same posture of leading.

 

John pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock, I think we should dance like a pair of people who dance, instead of dancing like two dancing-major students who are practicing in front of their classroom mirror.” He points at the mirror above the mantle, in which their images do look silly.

 

“Come here, closer,” John gestures him, “I know some basic movements, what I need is to do them more naturally. Just…dance **_with_** me, OK?”

 

 ** _Oh._** John wants to dance **_with_** him. So John does not simply want Sherlock to teach him dancing. They will be dancing **_together_**. Only in their living room, where curtains are drawn, yes. But still, it’s them dancing together.

 

So Sherlock steps into John’s personal space. He puts his left hand on John’s shoulder—luckily enough it’s the good right one; his right hand joins John’s reached out left one. John’s fingers automatically tangle with his, and his right hand finds itself closing around Sherlock’s waist.

 

All of a sudden, they are so close to each other. So close, that Sherlock can feel the thin calluses between John’s left hand fingers, the warmth radiating from John’s right hand palm, he can smell a tad of John’s aftershave, and he can see the dark-golden tourbillion on top of John’s head.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Yes, John?”

 

“Shall we start?”

 

“What? Oh…Erm, right, sure. First step forward with your left foot, then right foot sideways to the right.”

 

***

 

A peaceful piece of piano music flows into the room from Sherlock’s ipod.

 

He can’t remember how many songs there have been on his playlist. Neither does he know how much time has passed. They have got used to each other’s pace and rhythm, John’s steps have become more and more confident and fluent. Many songs ago, Sherlock has totally given control to John, letting him truly lead. They no longer need actual words to communicate or coordinate: dancing had become their new language. A silent hint of pressure from John’s fingers to his palm, is enough for Sherlock to understand which movement to choose and which direction to go in the next moment.

 

“Beautiful.” John lets out a low sigh.

 

“Hmm?” Sherlock feels like waking up slowly from a tender dream. Now they are almost pressed chest to chest, and swing together ever so slightly. His chin is one millimeter away from resting solidly on John’s broad shoulder.

 

“The music. It’s beautiful.” John repeats.

 

“Hum. Clayderman.” Sherlock says lazily.

 

“I still love yours more.” John’s words are softer than a puff of breath blown to his ear.

 

“Mine?” Sherlock’s heart skips a beat.

 

“Your music. When you play the violin. Best music I’ve ever heard.”

 

“You want me to play on the wedding?”

 

“Only if you want to.”

 

**_Anything for you._ **

 

Sherlock does not say that aloud. He waits until the song is over, draws back a little so that his head is no longer hovering above John’s shoulder. The period of time they just had is precious, but John has had quite enough practice and dances very well now.

 

“You are learning fast today, John, but… but I think…what you might need is… is to get used to doing this with Mary.”

 

John raises his head to look up into him. He doesn’t say a word, he’s smiling, but there is a shade of sadness in his smile. Sherlock cannot decipher it.

 

John’s hand lifts from holding his waist to holding his cheek, his thumb fondling along Sherlock’s jaw line. During a very short, crazy second, Sherlock would almost believe John is going to kiss him.

 

However, John pauses, and seems having made some big decision. Then his hand comes to the back of Sherlock’s neck and gently pulls him back to his shoulder.

 

The next song begins, neither of them speaks more. They just keep dancing together in each other’s arms. Sherlock is thankful of the length of his playlist. It is as long as if there are the rest of their lives ahead of them.

 

***

 

About John’s stag night, Sherlock does not remember much.

 

There is a whole bunch of alcohol. A lot, a lot of giggling. Tea is hot, flames in the fireplace are warm, John’s palm on his knee is like boiling.

 

The last thing Sherlock remembers before he falls into a deep slumber is that they lie together on the carpet in front of the fireplace, his left hand in John’s right hand. John’s fingers are drawing most strange circles around his finger.

 

***

 

When Sherlock wakes up the next day it’s near noon. He’s in his own bed and the flat is empty. John’s not here.

 

Dizzily and sleepily, he fumbles out of the bedroom and enters the kitchen. There is a note stuck to the handle of the kettle.

 

_Sherlock,_

_Thanks for last night, I had a great time._

_Sorry I’m not around when you wake up. I’ve got some major purchase to see to._

_Drink some water, that’ll do with the headache. And, remember to eat, OK?_

_John_

 

Major purchase.

 

So major that John does not want him to come along? Like what John previously did, asking Sherlock to help him pick all these trivial things like cakes, stationary, colour of tablecloth?

 

Sherlock takes out his phone. He wants to text John and ask him about this question in some very nasty tone.

 

No.

 

He stops himself.

 

John’s probably with Mary now. Do not text him.

 

Sherlock flops childishly back onto his mattress.

 

 

***

 

After the stag night, John’s wedding date seems much more imminent.

 

Sherlock hasn’t seen John or heard from him in several days in a roll.

 

He stares gloomily at the calendar, on which THAT DATE is marked by a little circle drawn by him.

 

***

 

Sherlock stands sulkily in the middle of buckets and buckets of sweet fresh flowers. John is taking his time, picking a little bit of these and a little bit of those, humming nameless tunes, clearly enjoying himself. Tomorrow will be the big day. Sherlock knows that he should try as much as he can to act at least more cheered up, instead of spoiling John’s good mood.

 

“Do people usually pick flowers one day before the wedding?” He forces himself to find some topic to talk about.

 

“Erm, no idea. First time getting married, myself, remember?” John’s voice comes from the other side of one big shelf of flowers, “Anyway, I prefer some more fresh ones.”

 

Sherlock wonders why Mary is not here picking flowers, too. Oh, something about the groom and the bride aren’t allowed to see each other the night before the wedding. Brings bad luck. Ridiculous superstition.

 

“Sherlock—?” John calls out, with a large shelf between them.

 

“Yes?”

 

Seriously, is this florist’s shop so big that they have to yell?

 

“You think roses are good-looking?”

 

Sherlock has never laid his thoughts upon that question much before.

 

“Umm…yes?”

 

“Lilies?”

 

“I guess…also good.”

 

“Quick choice: Tulips or calla lilies?”

 

Sherlock has no idea why there are so many types of flowers to choose from, but he decides he’d better think about it before answering.

 

He studies some buckets of flowers with labels on them: “If you want my opinion…I’ll say purple tulips and white calla lilies.”

 

“Terrific,” the rustling noises of John’s are coming closer along the flower shelf, “they’ll look so nice on **_our_** wedding, don’t you think?”

 

“What… our…” Sherlock is still bowing down to read Latin names of various plants.

 

“Yes, Sherlock.” John’s voice is so affirmative, and so close. He sounds right behind him.

 

Sherlock turns back so quickly that he might have sprained his neck.

 

John, kneeling down on one knee, is looking directly, fixedly and steadily and glowingly at him. What’s even more glorious than the smile on his face, is an enormous bundle of dazzling colourful flowers: Red roses, pink lilies, lavender babysbreath, salmon carnations, and purple tulips and white calla lilies, with green leaves and stems, all dripping water onto both men’s shoes.

 

“Sherlock Holmes, you are the flaring light and the only love of my life. Marry me.”

 

***

 

_IMPOSSIBLE IMPOSSIBLE IMPOSSIBLE IMPOSSIBLE IMPOSSIBLE IMPOSSIBLE ONE DAY BEFORE HIS WEDDING THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE_

 

Sherlock almost loses his balance in the middle of all the flower buckets and can see stars in his head.

 

“John…” He starts, weakly.

 

“Yes, Sherlock,” John does not break eye contact with him.

 

“Th—this is not funny, John,” franticly shaking his head, he steps backward involuntarily and hits his back on the shelf, “this joke is not funny at all--”

 

“Oh, Sherlock, this is not a joke, definitely not a joke,” John’s other knee also touches ground and he eagerly kneels his way to Sherlock, “I swear, I’ve got a ring! Now thinking about it, it may not be a good idea to have put the ring in my inside pocket while both my hands are occupied with such a big bouquet. Sherlock, could you please hold this for me a little--?”

 

Still in astonishment, Sherlock takes over the bouquet, and the flowers flutter mellifluously in his arms, like melody with fragrance.

 

John opens a royal blue velvet box. There is a small glittering silvery band in it.

 

“Sherlock, this is for you. Remember I said I had an important purchase?”

 

“John, I…”

 

“I know I have a lot to explain, but now,” John is holding this ring higher to him, “are you going to say ‘yes’, or are you going to keep me kneeling forever?”

 

Sherlock throws himself forward and kneels down in front of John. He catches his face between his hands and kisses him on the mouth. All the flowers fly up and spread all the way on the ground around them.

 

“Yes. Yes, yes, John. A thousand times yes.”

 

***

 

It turns out that Mary Morstan has always been working for Jim Moriarty. Professional assassin. Sanguinary crime histories. Fake nationality, fake accent, fake hair colour. Even the name Mary Morstan is a fake.

 

She stole the identity of a nurse to work at John’s clinic, and approached him when he was mourning Sherlock. After Sherlock came back and sabotaged John’s proposal, she still considered herself as John’s fiancée and has always been trying to provoke alienation between Sherlock and John’s friendship. All what she’s done are for one purpose: to fulfill Moriarty’s last wish—burning the heart out of Sherlock.

 

Mycroft has been working on collecting evidence of “Mary”’s crimes. John’s been kept contact with him, without Sherlock’s knowledge (Yes, when the British government and the ex army doctor retired from Afghanistan battlefield have decided to do something together, they might have been able to keep the world’s only consulting detective from discovering it).

 

***

 

“Do people normally propose one day before the wedding?” Asks Sherlock, as he turns over to lay more comfortably.

 

“Hmm, no, I don’t think so,” John murmurs, “please forgive me to have let you know until so late. God knows how much willpower it took me to hold back and not telling you, Sherlock. But we can’t risk it to let Mary perceive anything… She is dangerous, so we have to pretend that my and her wedding is being busily prepared, and give her the false prospect where I will marry her happily and foolishly, as planned.”

 

“You’ve also given me that false prospect.”

 

“Mycroft and I had decided that the wedding planning should go on to avoid causing Mary’s suspicion and vigilance. If you know it, Mary could also see the difference. This morning, your brother calls me that Mary’s criminal evidence is solid and she’s been taken away by MI6. Then I… have planned the proposal to you as quickly as I can. If it’s not been in such a hurry, I could have done better.”

 

Sherlock snuggles up tighter to John’s firm chest, lifts their tangled together left hands and has one more admirative look at the ring on his finger.

 

“I like your proposal, John, no matter it’s in a hurry or not.”

 

“Glad to hear you say so.” John tilts his head and kisses his curls.

 

“Have you measured my finger on your stag night?”

 

“Right guess, you smartarse. You are such a lightweight, it only took me one shot of scotch to get you drunk.”

 

“Maybe I have let you get me drunk.”

 

“Yeah, right,” John chuckles, “that was indeed a lovely night.”

 

“I’ve always thought you wanted me to be your best man.”

 

“Did you notice that I’ve never asked you to be my best man? Because you are not.” John says thoughtfully, “You know what, every time I’m thinking and realizing that at last, this wedding would be ours, I find all the acting and pretending worthy. And…not all parts are acting. On our wedding there will be the swan serviettes you prefer, the chocolate cakes you enjoy so much, and the flowers you like… We will be wearing matching suits, will be dancing to our familiar music, and you can even play your violin. All of your family relatives will be there! Can you believe this? There are even very little details about the wedding that are needed to be modified!”

 

Sherlock rests quietly in John’s arms, every detail of these months of wedding planning he and John had been doing together plays back like a movie in his mind.

 

“John?”

 

“What’s it, Sherlock?”

 

“Thank you. For the wedding.” He leans up to kiss him, “I love you.”

 

“I love you,” John kisses him back with a big smile, “and thank you, too, for becoming my adorable groom tomorrow.”

 

-END-

 


End file.
